Page 110 of Diamond Ring
“Hey,” Morales says, slightly startled like they’ve been caught doing more than standing in a hallway, “good game today.” From him, it sounds like a semi-admiring insult.
“You too,” Alex says. “Maybe don’t have one tomorrow.”
Morales shakes his head and gives a dismissive flick of a gesture, laughing as the ring on his left hand scatters the yellowish hallway light.
Several hours later, Alex, who thought he was going to fall asleep on the bus ride between the ballpark and the hotel, can’t settle.
Jake stirs next to him, sitting up. “Everything okay?”
“Not really.” Alex’s back aches, his hips, his mind from having to concentrate for so many hours each night.
“Worried about the game?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too.” Jake smiles. “You want to go play catch?”
“Now?” Because it’s late, and because they both should be sleeping, even if Alex has been trying to no avail.
Jake shrugs. “Why not?”
Despite its reputation, New York does quiet down late at night. They find themselves in a sliver of city park near their hotel, tossing a ball back and forth.
It’s easier to breathe out here, with Jake at a short distance lazily catching and returning Alex’s throws.
“I couldn’t sleep either,” Jake says. “I was mostly pretending so I didn’t wake you. I keep thinking about what people will say if we lose again. That’ll be shitty.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve been rehearsing a statement for if that happens,” Jake says. “You wanna hear it?”
Knowing Jake, he did a whole speech out on notecards. “Sure.”
“It’s pretty simple.” Jake smiles, and tosses Alex a flapping changeup, and smiles even more when Alex whistles his approval. “If we lose the series tomorrow, we just tell everyone to fuck off.”
Alex laughs, then drops his glove and closes the distance between them before gathering Jake in his arms. A hug that goes on for a while, careless of the whirring city around them.
“No matter what happens”—Alex pulls back but doesn’t quite let go—“none of that erases anything, okay?”
Whatever he’s expecting, he doesn’t anticipate the tug of Jake’s fingers at his earlobe. “You’re supposed to say, ‘That was some good pitching, Fischer.’”
“That was some good pitching, Jake.”
“Now you’re just saying that.”
“For real?” Alex asks, teasingly incredulous.
“I wish we didn’t spend all those years mad at each other. I feel like we could have done something great.”
“Who says we haven’t?” Alex kisses him, on the bump of Jake’s collarbone where his shirt collar has slid down, a brief, concealed press of lips. “C’mon, we’ve got another game to play.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
October
Jake
Jake wakes up the morning of game seven with Alex breathing softly against his neck. For a long minute Jake lies there, trying to not concern himself with a game he definitely won’t play in or anything that comes after.
